The Ins and Outs
by SharpesLass
Summary: Shortly after his dismissal from the Watcher’s Council, Wesley WyndamPryce goes wandering. BuffyverseHarry Potter Crossover


**Title: The Ins and Outs**  
**By:** sharpeslass

**Rating: **PG  
**Summary:** Shortly after his dismissal from the Watcher's Council, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce goes wandering. **(Buffyverse/Harry Potter Crossover)**  
**AN:** Canon Wesley never returns to England following his adventures in Sunnydale, but hey, this is a crossover so I've taken some liberties. Thanks to Jedishampoo for the beta.  
This was written for **Settiai** as part of sarkastic's Crossover Ficathon.  
The two things she wanted were a) An unexpected kiss and b) someone saying "so this is my fault now?" Not sure how unexpected the kiss really was, but I tried.

As the rogue demon-hunter made his purposeful way across the Scottish highlands, a thick mist rolled in from the east. His confident stride and upright bearing were unaffected. A lone wolf, a solitary soldier in the battle against unending evil, he was not a man to be stopped by rain or snow or dark of night. No. His was a destiny which turned on great tides, not mere mists. His was a lonely path from which ...

"Oh, Damn!" the tall figure cursed as he lost his footing and pitched forward into a rather large pile of slushy snow. "Blasted rabbits! Blasted burrows!" He scrambled to his feet and looked quickly around, though there could have been no one within miles to have witnessed his fall. He straightened and withdrew a handkerchief from the breast-pocket of his tweed traveling jacket. Removing his fogged spectacles, he made a few ineffectual swipes at the lenses with the damp but finely monogrammed square of linen.

He resumed his journey with a perhaps less strident step - caution would be of equal value to fearlessness when it came to surviving the myriad battles ahead of him. Soon he felt the chill damp of the snow into which he had so recently been plunged begin to penetrate and weigh down the heavy fabric of his garments. His mind, diverted momentarily from the eradication of evil, dwelt instead on tweed. It was sturdy, certainly, and generally warm enough, but it did tend to hold the damp. Nonetheless, it was practically the uniform of the legitimate vampire killer (slayers notwithstanding). It had been embraced for centuries by the Watchers' Council, of which he (until very recently) had been a member in good standing. Even the legendary Dr. Van Helsing had fought his fanged foes clad entirely in tweed, in spite of what those Hollywood people might wish credulous cinema-goers to believe.

Still, he pondered damply, might it not be time for a change? After all, he was no longer a member of the Watchers' Council. Van Helsing's day was long over and gone and he was bound, eventually, for America. People there did things differently. He knew that now, and though his upbringing had caused him to balk initially at the Yanks' flouting of tradition, he had to admit they got results. He'd personally seen more evil dispatched by two tank-top clad, well-coiffed young women than by a whole league of extraordinary tweed-touting, tea-tippling gentlemen.

He stopped once again to de-fog his glasses. Not, of course, that halters and hair-bows would be his thing at all, but Hollywood might just have it right when it came to the leather. He shivered slightly and imagined that leather might at least be more effective at keeping out the damp. Replacing his glasses he did a slow turn, surveying the landscape around him. What he saw disheartened him. What he saw, in point of fact, was precisely nothing – not even the hand he held up at arm's length in front of his face. He pulled out his compass and headed, now at a tentative shuffle, in the direction it marked as westerly.

He was beginning to regret his decision to trek around Britain before heading back to the States. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. What money he had left would almost be good enough for a one-way ticket, no more. He didn't know when he would return again to his native land. His father had made it clear he wanted no less than an ocean, if not several deserts between them and that was just fine with him, but he'd wanted a last look about and he was having it. Although to be fair, he wasn't seeing much at the moment and he'd be seeing much less once what was left of the sun set. That wouldn't be much longer if he was judging the time correctly. So he kept walking, mostly because he had no choice. Inevitably darkness fell. But as the curtain of night dropped, the veil of fog lifted. Not far off, a run-down building crumbling on its foundations stood, still, solid and stark against the now star-specked sky. He breathed a sigh of relief and headed toward shelter.

A closer inspection of the structure proved disheartening. The building was in advanced stages of decay. A large sign proclaimed "DO NOT ENTER. UNSAFE." A smaller and seemingly more recent sign warned in flowery red script "Beware of the leopard." Squaring his shoulders and steeling his nerve, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce gave the rickety front door a push and stepped inside.

A short hour later found Wesley in much changed circumstances. He stood in the midst of a large eccentric gathering, clutching a canapé and facing a bizarre individual who had introduced herself as a Professor Sybill Trelawney.

Upon entering the ruined building he had experienced a sharp feeling of vertigo and when the world turned right-side-up again he'd been inside what seemed to be a massive, well-tended castle. The large stone corridors had been mostly deserted. Trying to stick to the shadows, he'd tailed a small group of young people up a grand but startlingly malleable set of staircases, down several long corridors hung with startlingly animated paintings and through a door into a startlingly vivid party, peopled primarily with teens and adults wearing what appeared to be festive robes. Wesley had been through a lot over the last few months and while he felt it very likely that his mind had finally snapped under the strain, he didn't feel disposed to take against what ever fates or psychoses had chosen to provide him with warmth, shelter and rather good nosh.

"You look very like my nephew Segundus," Wesley's new companion murmured, leaning in so close that he had to take a step back to avoid being overwhelmed by the strong scent of cooking sherry she exuded. His back hit a wall and the woman clutched at his elbow. "That is why I feel I must warn you, young man." Her eyes, already magnified by an overlarge pair of glasses, widened further. "I see dark times ahead for you. Mark my words, very dark times indeed." Her ominous words were punctuated by what he supposed were meant to be comforting pats to his shoulder. He was not in the slightest bit comforted, but neither did he wish to be rude.

"Er, yes," he said. "Quite. Well, I expect nothing else. It's in my line of work, you see." He lifted his well-chiseled chin and stared into the middle distance.

"And what line of work is that, Dear?" the professor asked politely.

"Rogue demon-hunter." Wesley paused and glanced down at her in order to gauge her reaction to his words. She only blinked blankly as if waiting for him to continue. "I specialize in vampires mostly," he elaborated.

"Ah!" exclaimed Trelawney, with a triumphant expression. "I knew it! It is in your aura. You'll be here to see him then, I expect?" She gestured vaguely into the crowd.

"Whom?" asked Wesley. He noted with irritation the hint of trepidation creeping unbidden into his voice, and countered it nicely by tossing a canapé into his mouth with a very cavalier attitude.

"Sanguini, of course," she blinked back. "You did say you were researching vampires, didn't you?" He's the only one here. I expect you'll want to speak with him. Perhaps I could introduce... But whatever is the matter?"

Wesley tried to answer with dignity. He desperately wanted to say that nothing whatsoever was the matter and that he had, in fact, never felt more confident, but his efforts were impeded slightly by the tasty appetizer now obstructing his windpipe. When his choking fit subsided his voice emerged as a strangled whisper.

"A vampire? Here?" His right hand stole automatically to the inside pocket of his jacket where he felt the comforting presence of a large cross and several sharp wooden stakes.

"Mmm. Yes," replied Trelawney absently. "Stay here, Dear. I'll go find you something to drink." She gave him a vague pat on the back and wandered off into the colorful crowd, beads and bangles clattering around her.

Wesley leaned back against the wall. Things were becoming clearer to him now. How he'd come to be in this place was still a mystery but the 'why' had at least crystallized. Here in this room full of nubile young women lurked a vampire and it was undeniably his job to weed the demon out; to slay him and then, amidst the cries of thanks and whispers of shy gratitude, make his solitary way again to parts unknown. And maybe, just maybe, the hope rose unbidden in his heart, this could be a test thrown in his path by the Watchers' Council, a last shot at redemption in the eyes of his peers and of his father.

He began to circle the room cautiously, searching the crowd for his prey. It was a frustrating task. One of the first advantages to vampire hunting in the States was the popularity of the suntan. In Sunnydale a vampire's very pallor made him stand out in a crowd. Here in the British Isles nearly everyone had a slight look of the undead about them. Milk-white complexions confronted him from every corner.

Finally he spotted a likely target. A gaunt, pallid man with a hook-nose and lank, black hair stood glowering amid a small cluster of people of varying ages whose attention seemed to be focused on an equally sallow, fair-haired teenaged boy. Wesley noted that Sybill Trelawney was among them. Recalling her promise to seek out the vampire for him, he became even more certain that he had found his man... er, demon. He took stock of the group. There was a grubby sort of older gentleman with a triumphant if slightly sinister gleam in his eye and a fat, complacent fellow wearing an expression of benign benevolence. A skinny brown-haired boy stood beside a fair-haired girl who was wearing rather silly spangled robes and a moony expression.

As Wesley watched, the group slowly drifted apart. The potential vampire was positively seething and the teen looked hardly more pleased. Wesley started to move in closer but was brought up short when he noted that the grubby man was observing him. Gone was the triumphant look he had worn moments ago. His now sullen expression transformed into one of suspicion as he slowly looked Wesley up and down. Here was a man who surely surmised that Wesley had not been on the guest list.

Anxious to blend in, Wesley grabbed a drink and moved quickly in the opposite direction. A fleeting look back revealed the grubby man now deep in conversation with another adult. Both were scanning the crowd, he had no doubt, for himself. At the same time, Wesley spotted his suspect. He was moving toward the door. He had the teenaged boy, wearing a look of deep rebellion, in tow. Wesley didn't like the look of the youth any more than he did of his vampire. The boy had something of the weasel about his features. Still, it was his job to protect the innocent from harm and the poor lad seemed likely to become a victim. Keeping out of sight of the grubby chap, he tried to make his way to the door, focused completely on the task at hand.

So focused was he, in fact, that he didn't even see the small figure of the girl until shortly after he'd run smack into her. Intending to voice a quick apology and move on he looked down and was stopped in his tracks. He was looking down into a pale heart-shaped face surrounded by a tangle of bushy dark curls. Though she seemed flushed and in some disarray, the only things marring her astonishing beauty were a decidedly harassed expression and the large dark, wet spot left on the front of her robes by the former contents of Wesley's cup.

"Do please look where you are going," she snapped primly.

"Of course," he stammered. "I'm very sorry."

"It's all right," she said in a resigned sort of voice, mopping at the front of her robes with a hastily snatched-up serviette.

"Let me help you," Wesley said, withdrawing and proffering his handkerchief. The young lady eyed the muddy linen dubiously.

"Erm. Thank you, but I'll take care of it myself," she said politely. She pulled a smooth wooden rod from the inside of her robes, pointed it at the spreading stain and uttered a brief phrase. Her robes were instantly both spotless and dry. Wesley simply gaped. He knew for a fact that magic was a reality... but it was never a simple reality. Then again, his grip on reality seemed definitely to be slipping – as was his suave demeanor. His reaction did not go unobserved.

"You're a Muggle!" the young woman accused, scrutinizing Wesley very closely now. He drew himself up.

"I certainly am not... A what?"

"A Muggle," she said slowly as if to someone dim-witted. "A non-magical person. You really shouldn't be here." Her censorious tone gave way to one of curiosity as she glanced over her shoulder. "How did you manage it anyway?"

"I have my ways," said Wesley cryptically. When in doubt, bluff. Keeps them off balance. Dropping credentials never hurt either. "I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, rogue demon-hunter."

She crossed her arms and looked at him dubiously. "Rogue what?"

"Demon. Hunter. I'm currently on the tail of a vampire. I... Oh, damn!" Wesley looked around frantically, silently cursing himself and his eye for the ladies. Where had the creature gone? By now it could be too late. "I'm very sorry, Miss...?"

"Granger. Hermione Granger." Wesley had the most vexing feeling that the girl was trying not to smirk at him. Her arms were still folded firmly across her chest.

"Enchanted," he said, trying for a frosty tone. "I'm sorry but I really must dash. Lives... even your own life, may at this moment be in my hands."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, and what's more I don't believe you do either."

"I've no time for this," he snapped back, and turned to go.

"No!" her small hand closed around his arm. There was panic in her voice.

"My dear girl," he said turning to her. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear. I have the matter quite in hand." But Hermione was looking over Wesley's shoulder with a look of pure terror. He spun in the direction she was facing, expecting to see his vampire looming over them. Instead he saw a determined looking young man of considerable height pushing through the crowd in their direction. Wesley turned back to Hermione in confusion.

"McLaggen!" she wailed in frustration. "Don't let him find me. Tell him I've gone. Please!" Wesley took in her disheveled appearance once more.

"Has that boy hurt you?" he asked sharply.

"Well, no not really." She was still glancing over his shoulder and had positioned herself so that she was mostly hidden by his spare frame. "But he's a dreadful bore and not... Well, not much of a gentleman."

"I see. Well perhaps I could..." Wesley stopped himself. He was becoming distracted again. This was no way to impress the Council. In fact this girl could be a part of the test. The watchers had surely heard all about his embarrassing behavior in regard to Miss Cordelia Chase. He steeled himself to refuse Hermione's request, but looking over her head he saw the grubby man from earlier, now flanked by two adults who simply oozed authority in spite of their eccentric manner of dress. They hadn't spotted him yet, but it was only a matter of time. "Perhaps we could help each other, Miss Granger."

Wesley sprinted down the deserted corridor at top speed. He'd lost a lot of time chatting with Miss Granger and more still tripping up that McLaggen fellow. Still Hermione seemed to be doing her part to delay the pursuit of the grubby-looking man she called Filch. He only hoped he wasn't too late. He saw no sign of predator or prey and was stymied by the large number of doors lining the hallway. Luck it appeared was with him after all, however. Upon reaching the last room in the corridor he saw a door opening. He slipped into a another doorway, pressing himself back and hopefully out of sight. The blonde boy he'd seen earlier was skulking down the hall. The door from which he had emerged was left open behind him. Wesley observed the teen closely. He could see no sign of bite marks on the boy's neck. What had saved him, he wondered. Hermione had demonstrated unusual powers. Was this youngster also capable of such things? Could he have dispatched the vampire himself? Wesley felt a small stab of disappointment at the thought. The idea that he may have lost what he so desperately needed, a chance to prove himself, fueled his resolution and quelled his ever-present and long denied fear. When the black-clad man left the room moments later, Wesley stalked after him with pure determination.

He did not, however, abandon his customary caution. He was careful to stay out of sight and watched as his prey entered another of the many rooms dotting the long corridor. He hesitated for mere moments (maybe sixty moments, all told) and then made his move, slipping quietly into the room.

The vampire was there. Its back was turned toward him, shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat. In spite of its superior hearing, the vampire was clearly unaware of his presence. Grasping a stake in his hand he strode forward and announced himself.

"Prepare to meet your end, foul creature from Hell!" The dark-haired man turned, a look of incredulous disbelief on his face, and Wesley lunged.

"Immobilus!"

For a fraction of a second it was very like that feeling Wesley had often experienced in dreams – that sense of running or trying to run through air which has suddenly gained the consistency of heavy treacle. The sensation was a brief one. It was followed by a complete inability to move at all. He stood rooted to the spot as the menacing figure in dark robes moved toward him. He could not even close his eyes as his doom approached. "Forgive me, Father," he thought, not for the first time, as he steeled himself for the worst. But the man made no move to bite him. His dark eyes flashed with disdain and a flicker of something else, curiosity perhaps.

"What," the man intoned slowly. "Have we here?" He reached out a long-fingered hand and removed the stake from Wesley's own. Then, patting down Wesley's pocket he removed the other two stakes and the cross. He stared at the cross with something like amusement before gently replacing it in Wesley's pocket. Not a vampire then, but something just as powerful. The man flicked the wand he had pulled out at the commencement of the thwarted attack and Wesley's body went limp. He collapsed to the floor and, control of his limbs restored, immediately tried to regain his feet.

"Stay. Down," instructed his apparent captor, placing a firm hand on Wesley's shoulder. Mustering as much dignity as possible Wesley sat up straight on the floor. His adversary paced over to the desk at the front of the room and leaning against it regarded Wesley.

"Tell me," he drawled, "who you are and what, exactly, it is that you are after."

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, rogue..." He trailed off in the face of the older man's penetrating stare. "I'm no one, really."

"A Muggle?" the man's voice was incredulous. "How did you get into the castle?"

"I'm not quite sure," Wesley felt utterly defeated. What was worse was that it was a feeling becoming so familiar that there was almost a comfort to this inevitable surrender. This man was not a vampire, that much was clear, but probably a very powerful warlock instead. And furthermore the possibility of the Watchers' Council having anything at all to do with Wesley's current situation was a very remote one indeed. No last chance. No hope of redemption. The dark stranger never took his eyes off Wesley's face and Wesley felt almost as if he was reading his very thoughts.

"It is strange, is it not," the man murmured. "The lengths to which we will go for redemption, or" he removed his eyes from Wesley's face and gazed intently out the still open door and into the hallway beyond. "To please a ruthless father."

Out from under the spell of the man's stare, Wesley found the courage to speak. "Please. What are you going to do to me?" The man flicked his gaze back to Wesley, looking as if he'd momentarily forgotten he was even there.

"Do?" he waved a hand dismissively. "Your memory will be modified and you will be returned to the place where you belong." The man pointed his wand back at Wesley and once again Wesley found himself unable to move.

He watched, helpless, as the dark figure swept from the room. He had no doubt that he would return, probably with that Filch character and one or two official types in tow. The fact that Wesley had not been threatened with physical harm was little comfort to him. _Memory modification._ He could think of few things more disturbing (few things that didn't involve death, disfigurement or physical pain that is). The removal or alteration of a person's memory constituted a huge violation and he for one did not wish to sit still for it. Unfortunately, it seemed he had little choice.

So lost in miserable thought was he that he didn't hear the soft footsteps behind him.

"Mobilus!" He heard the female voice and fluidity returned to his limbs. He rose to his feet and turned to face this new intruder.

"Miss Granger!" he exclaimed.

"I'm here to rescue you," she said matter-of-factly. "I heard what they were going to do to you and I just don't think it's right, messing about with people's memories just because they're Muggles. My own _parents_ are Muggles for heaven's sake!" 

Wesley hadn't the vaguest notion what she was talking about but she seemed at the moment to be the most beautiful creature in this world or any other. He strode toward her and grabbed her up into a tight embrace. She even smelled remarkable. He felt the most compelling urge to kiss her. However, his exuberance was not to be so rewarded. Instead she stiffened in his arms. Realizing that this was not perhaps the best way to express his gratitude, or win a woman's heart (if that was in fact what he wanted, it was hard to think at the moment) Wesley released her. Stepping back, he adopted a more formal posture and extended a hand.

"Thank you, Miss Granger."

She simply raised an eyebrow at his hand and turned on her heel. "Follow me. We haven't got very much time." Maintaining a prudent silence, Wesley did as he was bidden.

He allowed her to take the lead, ducking into doorways when she deemed it necessary and following her down more long and increasingly darkened hallways. He wasn't sure where they were going, only that it was taking a very long time to get there. In spite of his best efforts to impress, Hermione was decidedly put out by Wesley's tendency to stumble over objects in the dark. He tried to explain that he was simply the victim of poor night-vision and that it was no fault of his own, but she just shushed him and quickened her pace.

In spite of her apparent sense of urgency, Wesley had thus far detected no signs of pursuit. In fact he found his thoughts dwelling less and less on his situation and more and more on his companion. He found it hard to pinpoint just what it was about her that he found so disturbingly attractive. Yet there it was. And once again "it" seemed to be just below the age of consent. He would have to start seriously evaluating this sooner or later. No doubt it was some sort of psychological side effect of having spent his formative years at all male preparatory schools.

"Where exactly..."

"Shhh!" she hissed, pulling him suddenly into a large darkened niche in the stone wall. He now clearly heard footsteps approaching and a faint light illuminated the darkness. Voices echoed down the hall toward them, but he could only catch fragments of speech.

"...hadn't left him alone..."

"...Quite incapacitated, I assure you"

"Ministry will hear of this..."

"...has more pressing matters than mislaid Muggles at the moment, I imagine."

Wesley felt Hermione's tense frame relax against him as the voices faded. She exhaled slowly and her soft breath caused the hairs on his neck to stand on end. He repressed a shiver.

"May I say, Miss Granger, that's a lovely perfume you are wearing."

"It is not a perfume," she stated flatly, removing Wesley's hands from her waist (how had that happened?) and moving cautiously into the corridor. She headed off into the darkness and he followed close behind. "It's a spell," she continued. "And it's not supposed to work on you, only on certain thick-headed mutton-brains too dim to see the nose right in front of their..."

"Oof!"

Hermione stopped but did not turn around. "Do please try and stop walking into things," she ground out.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Wesley straightened, patted the stone wall in front of him and quested for a dignified posture while covertly readjusting his displaced glasses. Hermione peered cautiously around the corner of the large, open archway occupying much of the wall with which Wesley had had his most recent close encounter. She then turned to face him, looking deeply dispirited. Wesley wondered in spite of himself if it might not be the proper time for a comforting hug.

"Look," she said before he could bolster the courage to advance. "I don't think it's going to be possible to get you out the front entrance. I'll just have to find some place to put you for a while, just 'til things quiet down. I think I know where I can hide you."

Wesley made to protest but the reason for her urgency soon became all too plain. Raised voices could now be heard throughout the castle and the faint glow of lights shone not far behind them. His would-be captors were in full pursuit now, and getting nearer by the minute. They set off again at a rapid pace.

Hermione finally came to a halt in a long corridor made remarkable only by a rather garish tapestry depicting a group of troll-like creatures apparently performing Swan Lake. Hermione glanced around for a moment, then walked toward one large blank wall and began trailing a hand over the stone.

"It should be here," Wesley noted a hint of desperation in her thus-far confident voice. The voices were getting closer and Hermione was showing no signs of moving on. In fact she was now glowering at the wall as if it were a living thing which had given her great cause for anger. Wesley cleared his throat and Hermione whirled on him, eyes wide. "Why isn't it here?" she managed to both whisper and shriek simultaneously. Wesley watched her closely. Perhaps they were all mad here after all. He was searching for something soothing to say when Hermione grabbed his hand and dragged him into the shadows. A group of individuals had entered the far end of the hallway. Wesley pressed his back hard into the wall, which was suddenly a door. He fell back a bit, closing the distance between what he had seen and what was now a reality. Hermione did not echo his shocked gasp.

"Of course," she sighed with satisfaction, gripping the iron door handle. "It's only here when you really need it."

"I..." Wesley heard himself squeak as Hermione reached from inside the previously non-existent room and pulled him inside. It was dark, very dark, and somewhat cramped.

"Lumos." Hermione had her wand out again and the tip cast enough illumination to allow the pair to look about. The room was filled from top to bottom with odds and ends and this and that, like some cross between a new-age curio shop and a quite mundane, let storage space. "It's smaller than last time," she muttered. "But I suppose it doesn't have to be a large room for our current purposes."

"Excuse me," Wesley felt as though she'd nearly forgotten his presence. "What exactly are our purposes?"

"You just need a place to hide for a while. They will have stopped searching for you by morning. Then I'll come and help you out of the castle and put you on a bus or something."

Wesley was not reassured. The idea of being alone, tucked away in some corner of this madhouse, did not appeal to him in the slightest. He felt quite safe with Hermione around. She at least seemed to know what was going on for the most part. And he didn't think he could handle being locked away, especially not for any real length of time. He felt a cold panic boiling to the surface.

"You've got to get me out of here!" He meant to sound commanding, but his words came out frightened and not a little petulant. "You said you had a plan to help me. I trusted you." No better.

"So this is my fault now, is it?" Hermione said in exasperation. "I'm not the one who got herself into a situation she couldn't get herself out of. And I'm certainly not the one who tried to attack a teacher!"

Wesley slumped. "I know," he said meekly. "I'm sorry. I just don't like... close spaces."

Hermione leaned against a dusty but solid-looking wooden cabinet and glanced at him wearily. "Why did you attack Snape anyway?" she asked.

"Snape? The man in black?" Hermione nodded. "I thought he was a vampire."

Hermione looked affronted. "So that makes it all right, does it?"

"Vampires are soulless demons, beyond hope of redemption," he recited.

"What, all of them?" Hermione asked, pursing her lips and cocking a brow.

"Well, perhaps not all... but very definitely most. Nearly all."

"I think that is a very narrow view to take," the girl was actually tapping her foot at him. "I suppose you have strong opinions on werewolves as well then, have you?"

Wesley straightened, feeling on firmer ground at last. "Werewolves," he lectured, "aren't inherently evil. They are simply infected, innocent victims. But," he raised a finger and deepened his tone. "When manifesting the symptoms, that is to say, transformed, they are a deadly threat and one should not shirk from eradicating..."

"Right," Hermione said tightly. "I'll be going then."

"Wait," Wesley grabbed her arm frantically. "You will come back?"

"I'm honestly not sure why I should bother at this point," she gritted back.

Wesley took in her expression and felt his hopes shrink. He knew that expression. He'd seen it on several faces back in Sunnydale and it had been an early but definitive warning sign that things were not heading in his favor. He'd chosen to ignore that look then. He'd preferred to continue pressing forward in enforcing the authority which he had already, unbeknownst to himself at the time, lost. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. Pride and rigidity had cost him his life's work, but he wouldn't let it cost him any portion of his memories, not when there was a chance he might learn from them.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I don't know what it is I've done to upset you, but I am sorry."

Her expression softened slightly but her tone remained stiff. "You just said some very ugly things, Wesley. Not all vampires are bad you know, and I can certainly see why the staff is so anxious to hunt you down if you insist on trying to attack everyone you suspect of being a vampire. It's illegal you know. Paragraph twelve of the guidelines for the treatment of non-wizard part-humans specifically states..."

Wesley could help himself no longer. He reached out and grabbed Hermione cutting her speech short with direct application of his lips. To his surprise she didn't push him away but allowed the kiss to deepen. When they broke apart several long minutes later Wesley was breathing deeply and her eyes were shining.

He looked ruefully down at her. "I don't think we belong to the same worlds," he said softly.

"Got there now, have you?" Her tone was one of exasperation, but a small smile played about her lips all the same.

He reached out and touched her cheek lightly. "I can be a bit thick about things sometimes, I suppose. I'm working on it."

Hermione took his hand and squeezed it gently. "I'll be back for you in the morning," she said. "Please don't wander off. You should be able to find everything you need right here in this room." He cast a doubtful look around him.

"Trust me," she said firmly. He nodded and then watched as she opened the door, cast a quick look down the hall, stepped over the threshold and was gone.

Wesley slid down to the floor, his back to the heavy cabinet, and was soon deep in thought. The world had a habit of changing around him and, he reflected, it was probably better to change with it. Not that he had a lot of choice. Wesley still hoped to make a mark on the world, but rather suspected the world would be making a fair share of marks upon him in return. This morning he had been a different man than the one who had first arrived in Sunnydale with his books and preconceived notions about evil. And this evening, he suspected, he was a very different man than the one who had tripped and fallen over a rabbit hole several long hours ago.

Rabbit holes, Wesley's overtired brain turned the concept around for a bit. Children's stories seemed always to involve secret ways in and secret ways out. You had your rabbit holes, or secret gardens or wooden wardrobes. He turned and pondered the cabinet behind him. Rising, he ran his hands over the smooth wooden doors and grasped the knobs. He pulled them open and looked into the cabinet's dark interior.

_"I wonder,"_ he murmured, and stepped inside.

**fin**


End file.
